


memories

by teaspoonery (quodpersortem)



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/teaspoonery
Summary: (livejournal re-post fromhere; mine)rating: pg-13word count: 3650the way he handles this isn’t like the kind of man he is—something outside of himself pushes him to act activelydate: 2011-07-11





	memories

Charles notices only because they’re strange thoughts—unfamiliarly shocking.   
  
A needle is imprinting numbers in pale, young skin. A gunshot. He thinks he sees Shaw too, somewhere in the myriad of thoughts, but it’s nothing more than a glimpse. Immediately after it’s swallowed up by mud and striped pyjamas.   
  
The way he handles this isn’t like the kind of man he is—something outside of himself pushes him to act actively. He doubts he could’ve fought it, had he wanted to. At the same time, he isn’t sure why this man deserves to be saved, just that he does.  
  
The cold water leaves him immovable for a moment. Then there is a warm body against his own, all limbs and muscles, and,  _Erik_. Charles can almost feel the thrum of power within the man he is holding, how limitless it feels. Limitless, just like the anger that takes his breath away for a moment, that stuns him.  
  
He has to scream to get through to him.  
  
_Not alone._ It reverberates through Erik’s head after he’s said it. Then he goes limp, allowing Charles to swim them back to the surface. Charles feels how cold the water is again; then the boat comes to pick them up.  
  
Hours later, he can still feel Erik’s pain, tensing his muscles and cramping his guts. Raven walks in the moment he starts dry heaving over the toilet.  
  
˟  
  
He doesn’t see the actual brand until weeks later—and it is a brand, because the numbers aren’t worth enough to be called tattoos. Even without reading Erik’s thoughts, the memory is crystal clear.  
  
That is the first time that he actually thinks, actually  _believes_  there may be times he shouldn’t pursue his gift, even if it is for the greater good. Nothing like the promises before, the ones he knew he’d break before making them. Yet, in bed that evening, he has, tries, needs to reach out for Erik.  _To check whether he is fine,_ that’s what Charles tells himself.  
  
It’s the normal knot of feelings and thoughts, spinning around in circles. He is vaguely aware of how Erik knows he’s inside his head and doesn’t appreciate it, how the thoughts suddenly seem to flatten out a little, become more superficial—but that’s happened before with other people. Charles will have to look into that, it’s probably a natural response to the intrusion.  
  
˟  
  
Charles wakes up drenched in sweat, the pleasant feeling still thrumming through his lower body. He throws his underwear in the corner of the room and turns the shower temperature to the coldest he can handle. Closes his eyes and tries to forget.  
  
˟  
  
Everyone takes to Charles’ mansion in no time. So soon, in fact, that it feels like the home he always wished for. The home  _all_ of them have longed for.   
  
He laughs at his own cliché when he tells Erik exactly that—Erik, who simply smiles and nods curtly. They are sitting in one of the many, many rooms, the chess board on a low table in front of them. Even so, tonight is not a night for playing. Charles is aware of how Erik moves uncomfortably in his seat, and though his base instinct is to reach out tendrils to touch Erik’s thoughts, he fights it.  
  
“Relax,” Erik says, shifting in his seat. It’s strange, how his posture changes all of a sudden. How one sip at his glass of whiskey can make him seem like an entirely different person—not out of place, not angry, nothing in particular really, except right here with Charles.  
  
They are looking at each other then, and Charles chokes out a nervous laugh. The thought of leaning in, of just kissing—it’s fleeting. But when he looks up, Erik is looking at him oddly and Charles wonders whether it was his own idea at all.  
  
Then—a loud noise paired with bright flashes outside. Havoc is at it again and Charles runs outside, two fingers pressed to his temple to figure out exactly what on earth the youths are doing this time. Erik stays behind, looking slightly bedraggled.   
  
˟  
  
He asks Erik for permission.  
  
Of course he does.   
  
The memory he needs—Charles has to look for it. Twist around the bad things to get where he needs. It’s a labyrinth of sadness.  
  
Afterwards, he isn’t sure why he cried. If it were the bad memories, the one good one or—because the good one he found wasn’t what he had hoped it would be. Then the satellite dish turns and he momentarily forgets about it.   
  
That evening, he is still not sure how he should feel. Maybe he simply is a horrible person, reading other people’s thoughts at a whim and with no respect for privacy. Maybe he should be happy for Erik, that there are still good memories of his youth.  
  
Maybe he wants Erik to love him.  
  
Only that is enough to nearly send him into hysterics. Society. Society would _never-_  
  
_No._ Maybe he just wants Erik to be his friend.  
  
˟  
  
They play chess most nights, sometimes at the kitchen table and rarely in the living room. Most of the time they go to Charles’ private rooms. His are the most elaborate of the building, originally designed to be a home within such a large house. One door leads to another, which leads to yet another—nobody has ever seen his bedroom, except the cleaning lady and the old man who lived here before his family moved in.  
  
He and Erik usually take place in the sitting room. There is an open hearth, several paintings on the walls, red curtains. The chess board—it has been there as long as Charles can remember. The memory it rouses is a fond one, being told not to touch it by his father. He wonders if he can share—no. Erik wouldn’t appreciate it, even knowing it’s meant well.  
  
“We should be able to be ourselves.”  
  
Sometimes they have whiskey. When they do, it is generally English or Scottish, and  _never_  bourbon. Other times, they take cognac or a strong red wine, stubbornly heady like tonight’s. Everything they have comes from the private collection the Xavier family brought with them from the UK.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The idea of touching Erik is back the moment he has trouble keeping his eyes opened, when the room is spinning and he should go to bed. Erik seems composed as ever. Charles is sitting on the floor because the chair has become too dangerous, and his legs touch his friend’s. They don’t wear shoes here.  
  
“Comfortable.”  
  
There is a flash of teeth, something hazy and not unlike a kiss—and oh  _God_ he lost control, oh—Erik’s hands under his arms, dragging him up. He is seeing flashes of images, all shattered like he is looking through broken glass. His heart is pounding too fast, and his stomach churns.   
  
The bathroom tiles are hard underneath his knees, the toilet seat is cool against his forehead. Then Erik is crouching next to him, pressing a washcloth against his face, his mouth, still grinning. Charles feels miserable.  
  
Erik drags him to his bed. Even when he isn’t using his powers, he is surprisingly strong.  
  
˟  
  
Charles is glad his work with the pupils is something which requires a lot of focus.  
  
He isn’t sure about what Erik felt that night, but he has barely been able to look into his eyes. He guards his power more carefully than ever before, difficult as it is. They all feel for Hank when his injection turns out the wrong way around; in a one-on-one conversation Charles asks him if he thinks he maybe should have tested it in a smaller quantity.   
  
Hank tells him  _no_. That either he was going to go with it, or not do it at all. Too little might not have made a difference. Too much resulted in what he is now.   
  
There is no way to ease his pain, except Erik keeps telling Beast—which is how Alex keeps calling him, and it pains Charles each time he has to admit it is true, Hank  _does_  look like an animal—this is who he is. Raven, equally blue nowadays, hugs Hank and wipes away the tears.   
  
He wonders if maybe there is a lesson in that for himself. One that has nothing to do with his powers.  
  
He wonders if Erik might think the same.  
  
˟  
  
Everyone is scared in their own way. Of reactions to what they look like, of not being accepted, of their feelings.   
  
Erik is afraid of his memories and Charles knows that. He studies the checked pattern of the chess board when he asks him about it, then studies the red curtain when Erik answers “yes”.   
  
He considers if he should ask now, if Erik wants to know what Charles’ childhood was like, but that seems impolite. He is never sure what others would want to know, and what they don’t want to know.   
  
Then Erik is looking at him again, exactly like  _that_ , and it sends a jolt of shock through Charles’ body. He is seventeen again, too clever for his own good, too aware of what others think of him and unsure of what to think of everyone else, knowing their each and every ulterior motive. Everyone except Raven, with whom he couldn’t share his thoughts anymore because his body had changed, and hers was in the process of doing so. Sometimes he is still shocked to see the woman she became enter his study, remembering her as the little girl who pretended to be his mother.  
  
Their toes are pressing together; the memory is gone in an instant. Charles doesn’t want to look. He looks. Erik is studying him, and Charles would like to know what he is thinking. He feels how his chest tightens, how his face heats in insecurity.  
  
This time, nothing gets destroyed outside. Instead Erik moves to Charles’ side of the chess board, breaching the invisible line, and kneels down next to him.  
  
Charles is holding his breath. Erik’s voice is rough when he speaks up. “Thank you.” Charles nods, debating whether he should lean in or lean away. His eyes flutter closed when he can feel Erik’s uneven breathing on his neck.  
  
Then the warmth is gone. He keeps his eyes closed, even when he hears footsteps moving away from him, then a door opening and closing.  
  
Rationally, he knows Erik thanked him for respecting the privacy he asked for.  
  
Idiotically, he still hopes Erik also thanked him for new and better memories.  
  
˟  
  
The ideal world doesn’t exist. Neither does the ideal evening, or person, or  _anything._ Everything has its imperfections, and it doesn’t matter that some of them are more flawed and more noticeable than others. Charles knows he is a bit of a mess.  
  
He didn’t cry when his parents died. When his father passed away, he was too young to grasp the concept of ‘never getting back’. When his mother died, he’d known exactly how she thought about him. How she never understood, and never really cared to either. How the old cleaning lady was always making him feel more comfortable, at first, and then later Raven who never left.   
  
He has wondered if he should have been in love with Raven—and why exactly he isn’t. He can’t say she is ugly when she is in her natural form—just different. Charles knows the excuse of having known her since childhood is silly. He doesn’t think of her that way—because there aren’t many people he thinks of that way.  
  
Then there are the feelings, about which he has—since he got to know Erik—tried to think of less. Analyze less. He tries anything to avoid the ideas until he knows he can’t anymore. Accepting he was a mutant wasn’t difficult. It’s something he was always able to do, even as a child. This is something new.  
  
He can’t look at himself in the mirror the first days after he realises the full extent of his feelings for Erik.   
  
Alex tries to comment on his hair exactly once, but the others glare at him. He wonders how much  _they_  know. Reading faces has never been one of his strong points.  
  
˟  
  
The kids are sitting outside one sunny day, while Charles is trying to figure out how to give them proper education.  
  
They need to be taught English literature, mathematics, and acquire a general knowledge of politics and economy. Next to that, they will have to learn about their powers individually, maybe with the help of a coach.  
  
He deliberately ignores Erik when he enters the room. The problem he is facing is finding the right teachers—they would have to know about mutants, or be mutants themselves. He would do it himself, but he isn’t licensed to teach any of the subjects the students would need, and neither is Erik. Atop of that, he functions as coach—  
  
“Don’t think so hard,” Erik speaks up. Charles looks at him, sees him lean back against the doorpost, his arms crossed.   
  
“I didn’t think you could read my mind without me enabling you.” It’s a joke, but it comes out all wrong, bitter because he knows how Erik hates it.   
  
“Oh no,” Erik grins, ignoring the sting in Charles’ words, “it’s your eyebrow.”  
  
“You know me too well, friend,” Charles pushes his desk chair back, then stretches his legs. To know someone is still a strange concept to him, especially around Erik. He remembers the things he does know, and wonders if that is what Erik means. Probably not.   
  
Erik walks up to him, looks at the points in his notebook. “You should find mutants.” Charles is trying not to focus on how he can feel Erik’s warmth on his back. Erik doesn’t bother picking up the pen, then puts a bold line over the words ‘human teachers?’.   
  
“Erik,” Charles says quietly, “that is not a good idea.”  
  
“Why not?” Erik says it harshly. “Because humans are more capable than mutants? Or because unmutated imbeciles are easier to find?”   
  
Charles doesn’t know how to explain this to Erik, the man who thinks mutants should be proud of themselves. And of course, Charles is not unhappy with who he is—he simply thinks it would be for the best if they waited. A few years. Ten, tops.   
  
By the time he thinks he has found the words, Erik has left the room. Charles doesn’t need his powers to sense his friend is more than a little angry.  
  
˟  
  
To respect Erik’s privacy is one thing. To respect the pupils’ is something entirely different. Most of the time when Charles tries to keep to Erik’s wishes , he finds it difficult to sense what the teenagers are at. Not that it always is a bad thing—he isn’t particularly interested in discovering what they do in the shower or in bed at night—but when they are practising their powers on-campus it comes in handy. Not completely unnecessary either. Once, when Raven disappears and everyone tells Charles they don’t know where she is, it turns out they broke a vase. It was Egyptian and worth more than just a  _few_ hundred dollars.  
  
It is starting to make him feel sick, not being able to fully let his guard down. It’s not normal for ordinary people to know what others think. He, Charles, he grew up knowing everybody’s opinion. That is normal for him. Not this.  
  
“I can’t do it,” he tells Erik one evening. The shark-smile appears on his friend’s face.  
  
“You made me move a satellite dish,” Erik tells him. “You  _can._ ”  
  
It takes a lot of practise. Unlike some of the students, he can’t conjure something out of nowhere—he has no physical feats and can’t shift shape. It just has always been there, like a comforting background buzz of thoughts that are not his. To exclude someone, almost feels like cutting out a hole. Heart-shaped, because this is Erik.  
  
He fails a couple of times; to allow himself to read the others’ minds is easy enough, as is blocking out anything he doesn’t want to see. But there is Erik, right in the middle of the mess in his head, right there—the metal gates moving, his mother sagging to the floor with blood pouring from her forehead, the guards—  
  
When he hears the scream down the hallway, he knows it must’ve brought on a nightmare. Charles wipes his face dry before he runs to see if Erik is alright.  
  
˟  
  
Months later, it has become easy.   
  
They all move around more comfortably, confidentially, hyperaware of what they can do and how they can use it, and how it makes them different but not in a bad way per se. Hank is most bothered by what he looks like; Alex is still the most insecure in handling his powers, especially when he isn’t wearing the plate on his chest that focuses the plasma.   
  
It’s comfortable, but at the same time, not really. None of them leave the grounds much, still slightly wary of the outside world after what happened.   
  
Erik is on his mind, but he isn’t in Erik’s. The students are calmer; now Charles can call them whenever he wants to without having to worry about focusing on who he would easily call his best friend nowadays.  
  
˟  
  
“You never told me,” Charles tells Erik one evening. They are sitting by the hearth again, no fire blazing; the bottle of whiskey still unopened.  
  
“No,” Erik responds. The glasses won’t be empty much longer now, Charles thinks. The brand on Erik’s arm is visible; Erik is wearing a t-shirt and Charles a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Dark trousers, the both of them. “You’ve seen enough. You know how I feel about it.” Charles can hear how Erik is still bitter about it.  
  
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Charles says. “I was too young to know about it, at the time, the—“  
  
“It’s not your fault, Charles,” Erik is looking up at him, and there’s a glint in his eyes. “I’m over it now.”  
  
_I know you are not,_ Charles thinks, looking back. He doesn’t share with Erik.   
  
They end up sharing good memories, with Charles laughing a little too loud and Erik mimicking voices. The undercurrent of sad thoughts stays anyhow.  
  
At the end of the evening, in bed, all Charles remembers is how the numbers looked raw and swollen when Erik got them. The knife he used, trying to carve them off. The way Shaw held the gun, a grin on his face and the coin on his table. The few times he has looked into Erik’s mind without inhibition, he will remember the rest of his life.   
  
He looks up at the ceiling and counts the cracks.  
  
˟  
  
In the end, all it really takes is some more wine. Enough to get the both of them a little light headed—though maybe it’s the music on the radio, or this  _particular_ green bottle, or the alignment of the stars—if either of them believes in that at all.  
  
Erik sits down next to him, under the guise of explaining a chess move. They end up talking world politics, war, what growing up in the mansion was like. Charles can feel the heat where their legs are touching , while there is plenty of space on the couch to keep distance. Erik’s eyes are bright, and they seem to burn straight through Charles’ neat way of speaking, the calm of his movements. They make him feel nervously restless, feral. They touch on his deepest instincts, sending hot spikes of arousal through his body.  
  
Charles takes a deep breath and keeps talking, keeps smiling. He never fails to notice how they seem to move closer together each time one of them shifts. The radio is humming quietly in the background; the minds of the youths are buzzing with thoughts elsewhere in the house. Erik swings his arm over the back of the couch, Charles leans forward to take a drink from his glass.   
  
When he moves back, his back brushes with Erik’s body and he is suddenly too weary and too relaxed to care any longer. He sits down with his back pressing against Erik’s side, and then the arm isn’t draped over the back of the couch anymore, but over Charles’ shoulders.  
  
“Maybe you should,” Erik starts, then stops in his tracks. Charles looks up, feels how clothes shift against Erik’s skin, waits for an answer. Erik just smiles, looks away and then back at Charles. “You know.”  
  
Charles nods. He leans his head back against Eric’s shoulder, closes his eyes and lets go with a sigh.  
  
What he finds, isn’t what he expected to find. He’d thought more black, blue and brown. Instead it is the red colour of the curtains—the room, it’s the room they’re in. In the background, like a translucent projection on the wall, he sees himself and Erik, smiling. Then again, but at the long kitchen table they eat at as a group most days, simple dishes but healthy. Erik has been practising too, he realises. He doesn’t try to access the bad memories, but figures it would be more difficult now. Charles slowly lets the images fade, untangling himself.  
  
“How—“ he starts, but Erik is still smiling and something is swelling in his chest, warm and tingling, and disabling him to speak. And it’s that moment Charles knows, he  _knows._ Erik’s hand is on his knee already and all he has to do—all he actually does is to close his eyes and wait for it, because it’s coming.  
  
When Erik kisses Charles, the noise of the world falls quiet around them. 


End file.
